Dragged Up
by grannysknitting
Summary: Can you imagine the people who dragged the Freak up? Sally Donovan learns that John Watson has limits and Sherlock learns... well, nothing he didn't already know. cross posted to LJ


**Dragged Up – A Sherlock BBC Fic**

Follows First Impressions

Written: October 22nd, 19:27

Current Mood: productive

Current Music: classic FM

0o0o0

"God, can you imagine the monsters that dragged the Freak up?" Sally Donovan's mutter wasn't supposed to be audible to John, but like so many things about the Sergeant, subtlety was wasted on her. Anderson snickered and nodded like the Neanderthal he was, going along with his best chance of getting laid later that night. It appeared his wife was off visiting her sister AGAIN... John was beginning to wonder if that wasn't a euphemism for something else entirely and didn't quite have the balls to ask Sherlock for confirmation yet.

John glanced over at his flatmate, who was currently lecturing DI Dimmock while standing over a collection of body parts that wouldn't have been out of place in the fridge of 221B. That thought was more than a little disturbing - when did it become normal to find dismembered body parts in the fridge? - and John dragged his mind back to the present. This dismembered pile was from more than one person, and the doctor had a sneaking suspicion that they were either dealing with one of his own, gone off the rails, or a morgue attendant who'd been watching too many black and white horror flicks.

"Donovan..." Lestrade's voice was mildly disapproving, though John thought that was more because the man didn't want to argue with his subordinates than because he thought Sherlock deserved more respect. After all, Dimmock was bearing the brunt of Sherlock's attention now, while Lestrade took a back seat. He was only present because this crime scene overlapped an older one of his and he was hoping Sherlock would confirm the two cases weren't linked.

John disliked Donovan at the best of times - anyone with the slightest clue should have known that you don't influence people to follow your suggestions by insulting their friends - and he'd been up for two days straight by this point due to a little investigation that Sherlock definitely DIDN'T want the Yard to know about, so this latest sally against his friend turned into the proverbial straw that broke the camels back. Instead of ignoring it as he usually did, John decided to teach them a lesson they'd never forget.

His men in Afghanistan could have told anyone who cared to ask that Captain Watson was at his most dangerous when he was speaking in a calmly pleasant voice, pitched at just that level that made your scalp tingle and the hairs on your arms stand up. When the Captain used THAT VOICE someone was about to 'straighten up and fly right'. He'd used it on superiors, inferiors, civilians and insurgents alike and every single one of them had fallen into line without so much as a murmur. He'd yet to use it on Sherlock, not even that fateful night at the Pool, because Sherlock responded so much better to John's posture than his voice.

"I've met them," John's Voice caught them in it's web with just those three little words, "We had Sunday dinner a few weeks ago."

No need to mention that Sherlock had been quietly terrified the whole time that his family would scare his friend off. Mycroft had been there of course, sans umbrella, taking not so subtle delight in spooking his little brother and smirking at John. HE reacted to the Voice quite nicely. John didn't like to brag, though.

"YOU'VE had dinner at the Freak's family home?" Anderson proved once again that he wasn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, bless him. Lestrade and Donovan had gone quiet though, which showed they at least had the sense to realise they were on the verge of an Unpleasant Experience.

"Yes," John murmured, giving Anderson a dose of the Look too - the one that made Sherlock shut up and sit still for at least fifteen minutes before his fidgeting set in again, "They're lovely people. Mrs Holmes is something in biochemical research - I'm afraid I couldn't keep up - and Mr Holmes is a multiple PhD in Literature. Sherlock clearly got his sense of scientific inquiry from one and his vocabulary from the other. We passed a very pleasant afternoon, and we'll be seeing them again for Christmas."

All of which had the benefit of being true and completely skipped over the scary level of intelligence that the entire family displayed and the fact that John had gotten a headache trying to keep up with conversations that operated on so many different levels that he'd only ever felt that he'd understood maybe two percent of what was really being said. Not that the family had been trying to show off, it was just that they were on such a closed wavelength that he'd been accidentally left behind. He'd gained a better understanding of his flatmate in that five hour visit - Sherlock didn't relate to 'normal' because for him, normal was so much MORE than most people were used to. He'd been very surprised to receive the invitation to Christmas dinner and downright gobsmacked that Sherlock had been so anxious for him to say yes. Apparently he'd made a Good Impression: something that had never happened before if Sherlock's rather disjointed mutterings in the cab back to Baker Street were to be believed.

"I'd prefer it Sergeant, that in the future, you refrain from maligning my friends within my hearing. What you do out of my hearing is between you and your..." he paused delicately as if searching for the right word while the three Yarders around him flushed and failed to meet anyones eyes, "Conscience. After all, Sherlock is here because a member of the Yard REQUESTED his assistance. Surely then a level of professional decorum could be displayed, especially in public?"

He remembered not to tell her she was dismissed, but only just in time, and caught Sherlock's eye. The man had probably been reading his lips, or his mind (John wasn't willing to discount that possibility quite yet) and was wearing his John-has-done-something-NICE expression. He nodded once to his flatmate and then moved away, beckoning with a pale hand as he headed for the nearest taxi.

"Game ON John!" the call was typical Sherlock and John huffed, wondering if he'd be able to squeeze some sleep into the next few hours before he started running after the worlds most impossible flatmate ever. Really, it wasn't his fault the man operated on a level so different from the rest of the world.

Though that WAS the last time Donovan and Anderson disparaged his flatmate in John's presence again.

END

DISCLAIMER - I don't own the characters, the setting or the concept. The plot is mine. No profit is being made.


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